The Sport
by Glitch Smokeside
Summary: Let's turn this into a wager. Let's play tag. The runner gets a day's head start. The chaser has to catch him. There's a time limit for the catcher. The time increases by one month each turn. A month to catch you, then a month for you to catch me, then two months and so forth. Eventually one of us won't be able to bear the strain of time, and will find the other. That man loses.
1. The Sport, Played

England stared out over the choppy waves, once again going through his mental argument with himself about the same subject. His inner turmoil clouded his features into a look of gloomy disdain, and though his green eyes peered out at the bumpy sea from beneath his heavy brows, he saw nothing before him.

What to do? It had been three months since he had cornered that slippery frog in the Caribbean waters. Three long months. Three incredibly long months. Three incredibly long months without a glimpse of him, without a whispering rumor as to where he was. Three long months without an embrace, without a touch. England pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed as he closed his eyes. Should he end the game and go after him? Give in and forfeit? All he wanted to do was turn his ship around and backtrack until he found him. He wanted to jump onto that other ship, throw all men who got in his way aside, and search every inch of that ship until he found that man. But that would mean losing the game. Would his pride allow for that, even if he wanted to?

" God dammit!" England yelled, bringing his fist down hard against the railing, and glared out to see. " It's your turn to come after ME, Frog! Your turn to chase ME!" England's bitter anger rolled off his hunched shoulders in menacing waves. His loitering crew hesitated along the wide berth they gave him to approach and break the delicate bubble that appeared to be their captain's sanity for the past week. One man stepped forward carefully.

" Captain, there be a storm approaching! Orders, Sir?" The scrawny boy asked. England's head snapped up from his emotional woolgathering to observe the world before him, his crew, wary of his temper, and the sea and sky over yonder. Those thick, dark clouds that blacked out the sun didn't spell good luck. The sea was choppy, edgy, as if it knew of the danger ahead and was all the more nervous for it. England abandoned his yearning thoughts and frowned as his decision was made for him. He could've taken the ship off course, and made new routes to follow that would lead them away from such dangerous waters. He could've, very easily, uttered the orders to his men to save the ship by turning it around and hightailing it away from those dark clouds. He could've.

But that would mean he'd lose the game, wouldn't it?

" All hands to deck!" He yelled at his crew, who scurried off like lightning. They knew what hesitating when Captain Arthur Kirkland gave an command meant. " Tighten the ropes and secure the masts!" He watched the boys instantly obey. " We're going to survive this storm, mutts! With or without you! I suggest you see to turning the odds of your own survival in your favor!" England watched in satisfaction as each of the other the men's eyes narrowed in uncertainty at that. They didn't know if he was telling the truth or not, but they weren't going to take chances. They hurried to complete the orders and find ropes to secure themselves with for when they hit those tidal waves.

England looked out over the sea again, noting how the waves were rapidly growing choppier and rougher. His ship rose and fell like it was being dragged over potholes. With a final defiant glare out to sea, England turned on his heel so fast his dark red coat swished around his ankles, and briskly walked into his quarters.

He approached his desk and rifled through one of the drawers to dig out a worn photo of that frog and himself, in their younger days when the world was much smaller and the seas much calmer. He'd gazed at this picture through so much. Through storms and clear nights, through rain, through attack. He'd gazed at it with such a array of emotions, hatred and agony, betrayal and fear, happiness, anticipation, hope… love. Yes. He'd gazed at this picture with love. As he did now. He stroked the frog's face, forever frozen in that alluring, teasing grin, and brought the cracked photo to his lips, his eyelids shuttering as he closed them.

" Hurry up, Frog." He breathlessly whispered, reopening his eyes. " I won't lose."

...

" ALL HANDS TO DECK! SECURE THE CANNONS!" England could barely see through the sheets upon sheets of rain the assaulted his crew and ship. " You, bucko!" He shouted and a man running past, who stopped. " Mind the wheel!" The man grabbed for the wheel and could barely stop it from whipping around in circles, certainly flipping the ship, but Arthur had no choice. His strength was needed elsewhere, he was the only one who had seen that one vital rope snap in a flash of lightning, and if he didn't retie it, the wind caught in the mast could pillage his precious ship. He squinted to keep the water out of his eyes as he shouted orders and ran from the aft to the poop deck, and climbed the ropes up to the mast. A giant flash of purple lightning followed by a boom of thunder that seemed to penetrate to his very core, allowed him to see the ropes, if only briefly, that he needed to climb. His clothes were sodden and heavy, long clothes were not meant to be worn on the ropes, so England shed them as he went, allowing his red coat and fine embroidery to be whisked away by the terrible wind, like a thief in the night. He continued climbing at fast pace, his boots slipping from the ropes many times, slick with seawater, and many times the sudden he was almost thrown from ship as the sea tossed his ship around like a rag doll. Reaching the swaying top, he locked his leg between the wooden posts and stood to reach for the flapping rope that at any moment would allowing the entire length of cloth to be opened and trashed. He saw it there, that filthy piece of rope through his rain and sweat blurred vision.

Every inch of him was soaked to the bone, and his dripping blond hair got in his eyes as he reached out into the open air to grab the rope that danced on the tips of his fingers until- yes! - he got it! He saw his crew watching his struggle, each of them knowing certain death awaited should the rope slip or his strength give out. He used all his strength to pull the rope tight again, and struggled to tie it off, securing it with a rugged shard of shattered wood. Gratified by this victory, he stood, to relieve his crew and assure them this would not be how they died, to his full height in a momentary egotistical show of showmanship and invincibility-

-just as the ship bucked again, and Captain Arthur Kirkland was thrown into the raging sea.

...

England didn't know where he was. He didn't know what happened after he was thrown from the mast and hit the waves. He didn't even know if he were alive. He felt sick, and unwell. What he lay on was soft and comfortable though, and England thought wearily that if he was in Hell after all, they sure were treating him nicely. But then the nausea hit, and he knew he couldn't be dead. Surely the dead didn't vomit.

He sat upright and leaned over the side of- a bed? -to vomit into a bucket that had been strategically placed there in advance. Most of what he vomited appeared to be sea water. His whole body felt lethargic, and his skin felt dry and pulled tight from the dried salt. For how long had he been unconscious? Breathing heavily, he wiped his mouth with the back of his fist and laid back down.

" Please tell me the rest of Hell will be as merciful as this small torture." He muttered to himself. His eyes snapped open when he heard a small, familiar male chuckle from his left, and his head turned unbelievingly to see if he was hallucinating.

Sky blue eyes met his own, and a small, amused smile played on the edges of those perfect lips. Those perfect, luscious lips, smooth and plump and soft, the perfect lips to ravage. England instantly took in the rest of the man's features, soaking up the familiarity of the long, straight nose, that angular jaw line fuzzed with stubble, those shoulder length waves of golden hair, like a dried out sponge in water. The man sat on a chair that was made simple by the luxurious clothes he decorated himself with, a blue coat and proper hat that shined with gold trim and lace, rich fabrics and smooth designs. The clothes would hide, to any other who didn't know his body, what his body was like. Slender, yet strong, appearing weak and girly, when the man was in fact, all too male. Those blue eyes peered at him, seductive even when lying in wake, and England swallowed as he felt his heart skip a beat then kick into double time, sending a rush of accelerated blood throughout his body, to one spot more than the others, though his face showed nothing but calm as he said, " Frog."

Captain Francis Bonnefey's smile grew more profound as he answered in a calling purr, " Arthur."

They continued to stare at each other, England through his poker face and France from beneath those seducing eyes that urged England's mask to break. That damning smile never left France's face.

When England couldn't stand it anymore, he looked away to the ceiling, and called out nonchalantly, " I was expecting you sooner. Don't tell me you lost my trail?"

" Oh, no, _Angleterre_, I would never." France purred, standing to his feet and strolling over to England's bed, so slowly England couldn't stand it. " I was simply waiting for you to come to me."

" Bastard, you planned it out, didn't you?" England glared accusingly at the man who leaned against the bedpost.

" Oui." He answered, smiling. " I was testing you, as well as myself. I zought for certain you would give in before I, so I followed at a distance for weeks, waiting for you to turn around. But you never did. Even zough I knew it was my turn to chase, I wasn't chasing. I know the rules well, _mon _Arthur. 'Whoever gives in first loses,' oui?" Twinkling blue eyes peered intently and he smiled as he said, " I want you to lose."

" You'll lose before I, frog!" England snapped. " Don't underestimate the might of the power that is Great Britain! _I _am Great Britain! Why would I ever turn tail and lose to a floozy Frenchman like you? The very thought makes me laugh!" England snorted in disgust. He was on a roll now. " And while we're on the subject, why won't you give in? Why do you insist it be me?"

" It's simple really." France cocked his head to the side and released the full seductiveness of his lust filled eyes. " _I_ want _you_."

England felt his breathing hitch and a wanton blush start to creep on his cheeks. So hurriedly, he angrily said, " Don't pull that with me frog! I know of your trickery all too well to all for your traps!"

" Only because you've given in before and let me have you. How else would you know of my 'trickery'?" France retorted, pointing out the obvious loophole, that alluring smile that drove England mad still on his lips.

" I would never do such a thing!" England snapped, blushing furiously, and glaring at the Frenchman. France sighed, that smile and all traces of teasing finally gone.

" Why not, _mon amour_?" France whispered, looking down at England with eyes so suddenly sad England regretted snapping at him. " I know you. I've _known_ you. I know you ache for me as I ache for you. Zose long, lonely nights at sea I dream of holding you in my arms, of breathing in your scent. Too many nights we're too far apart. Ze **agony** of loving you rivals the **ecstasy**, _mon amour_, and I am but a man." France gritted his teeth as he looked away. " My heart, however used and vast, can only bleed so much." England heart leapt with each truth France uttered. He couldn't stand those twinkle less eyes as they looked back at him, filled with all the heartache in the world. " Why won't you just be mine?" France spoke slowly, looking at England with unhidden longing so strong England felt his stomach clench in response.

" You know bloody damn well why." England turned his head away and looked out the bedside window, to a calm sea with a setting sun dipping nearly below the surface. He couldn't stare into those eyes when they pleaded so unfairly like that.

England felt when the atmosphere change. The tragic yearning of the love filled pleading vanished completely and in its absence England felt the hairs on the back of his neck raise, ever so noticeably. He stubbornly refused to make eye contact, and the longer he did so, the more tangible the air became until finally, France moved.

England heard the sound of France as he walked away, to the other side of the room. He heard very clearly when France took his boots and coat off, as he could feel France's stare as he did so. He knew France was watching him as he heard him undress, watching for his reaction. England knew these teasing games of seduction, he knew them well, but he couldn't stop the strong rush of blood flow to the pit of his groin, and the bittersweet ache that accompanied it. England kept track of the clothes in his mind as he heard them, one by one, hit the ground, each driving him just a little bit more mad with sweet agonies, and held his breath in anticipation. He knew France wore nothing but breeches now, and he heard his bare feet start to walk forward, approaching him again. England was suddenly aware- he'd been too distracted with France to notice before - that he himself wore only the lightest of cloth coverings beneath the thin blanket: A loose tunic. He felt the heat in his groin flare as he thought about what he knew was coming.

France pounced on the bed, and England looked up at him as he trapped him in a cage of slender, yet muscular and strong limbs. Blonde waves curtained France's face, and England met his fiery gaze with one of cool indifference. He knew he was caught, and this was all part of the game the two played. But if France thought he was losing, he had another thing coming.

" Be mine." France commanded.  
" I refuse." England said.  
" Submit, _s'il vous plaît_."  
" No."  
" I will win zis fruitless game eventually, you realize."  
" Unlikely. And definitely not today."  
The two glared at each other for the longest of times, and France knew the Brit's pride all too well; he knew he wouldn't win giving orders. So France looked away first, trying to keep his emotions under control, England suspected, so he could keep arguing with him. But what France did next shocked the Brit.

When their eyes met next, England barely had time to register that familiar terrifying grin and that  
particular emotion in those blue eyes before France kissed him.

It was not a soft kiss. There was no gentle nudges or timid touches between them as their lips met. It was not made of that sweet delicacy that made hearts beat fast and lovers hesitate. This was not a kiss. This was brutal and unforgiving. This was harsh and merciless and agonizing. This was war.

France kissed him unforgivably, his lips in all their soft beauty smashed against England's with the roughness of an animal, and his tongue clashed with his own. Their teeth clacked and France bit him and licked him savagely, barely allowing him to breathe between kisses. He lapped at his lips and tried to swallow England whole, like a man who has been deprived of something vital. Like a man who has been without water. Like a starved man.

England could only lay there and be ravaged, his breathing so irregular every inhale was a gasp for air. France pressed his body, hot and solid, against England's body, every delicious inch met his own. England felt his indifference slip further away with every passing second. Every fiery lick and bite and gasp made him loosen the delicate grasp he had on his self reason, until finally he couldn't stand the growing heat, and threw his arms around France's neck and yanked his mouth even closer, finally returning the passionate bites and breathless kisses with some of his own.

" Arthur.. _mon Arthur_.." France moaned against his lips, his voice breathless with desire. England jerked when he felt France sudden grab his crotch. He rubbed the growing rod roughly, feeling England's member through the thin blanket and clothes and England couldn't help the moan that escaped his abused lips, and his eyelids fluttered briefly as France pulled away.

" Arthur." France's suddenly stern voice made England's eyes snap open. He watched as France, his eyes half clouded with lust, said, " I'm not going to be sweet to you, until you're _mine_." With the solid sound of a promise. And the coldness of a threat.


	2. The Sport, Forfeited

" What..?" France watched England's eyebrows scrunch together the second before he pounced. Acting so quick England had no time to escape, France flipped him onto his back and threw his weight down on his chest. Unable to budge, England opened his mouth to protest, so France quickly threw his hand over it. With his other, he reached for the cloth rags on his belt.

" Shh." He hushed England's angrily protests. With an expert's grace, he quickly tied Arthur's hands to the steel bed frame, both together. Briefly both his hands were needed for the knot, and England spat out, " BLOODY GIT, GET _OFF_!" With a fury that shook his whole frame. France's hands were quickly done, and then he took a rag to England's mouth as well, silencing his infuriated rage into muffled grunts and swearing.

" I zink not, _mon Arthur_." France breathed into his ear. " And let me explain why." France straddled England again, and England eyes grew wide as he felt how hard France was beneath those breeches. England's eyes narrowed in on the growing bulge, and France noted, with a great deal of satisfaction, that England couldn't help but respond by growing hard himself. To add to his misery France rolled his hips, and England's muted breathing became louder, more ragged. " I told you, I will not release you until you've lost." France glared at England, whose half clouded green eyes narrowed angrily.

" You seem like you want to say 'That'll never happen!', right _mon Angleterre_?" France said as he ripped the blanket off of England, revealing him to be wearing a dangerously short tunic. He restraddled him. " Well, as much as you zink zat is true.." He reached behind him to remove a small knife from his belt. Slowly he pulled it out from behind him, and watched as England's face went pale. " You are wrong." He smiled as he lowered it, cutting from the bottom of the tunic, all the way up to the collar. He watched England's nervous breathing making his pale, smooth chest quiver under the blade that never touched skin. France would never hurt England. Not like this.

France quickly ripped the tunic apart, revealing to him a sight that aroused him unbearably; England's naked form, spread out beneath him. France's will seemed to leave him then, overwhelmed as he was by the sight.

He loved this man. It was a simple, consuming truth. He loved this man so much he couldn't stand it. He loved him to the point of losing all reason. He loved him so much that he didn't know up from down or left from right, loved him so much his every waking and unwaking thought for the past three months had been filled to the cusp with him, thoughts of him, fantasies and phantasmagoric images of him! He wanted nothing more than to be with him always, to wake and find his sleeping face nestled against his own chest, to feel the rise and fall of his innocent breath, to hold this body which he loved so dearly against his own, so that nothing, no person nor space would ever separate them again!

But England wouldn't let him! He never felt the same as France, he never felt the butterflies or the heart pounding responses. Whenever France caught him, he seemed angry, always angry, always hating every moment he was in his presence, always cool and indifferent and totally unaffected. Those times when France let himself be caught England seemed to only be happy for the triumph of conquering, not for seeing France. France knew England loved him. That he could see plainly in the nation's blushes and avoidances of eye contact. But England didn't love him the way he loved England. France rarely thought of anything because his mind was always full, always obsessively overwhelmed by Arthur! He loved him so much he hurt!

" Why don't you see zat!?" France yelled, slamming his weight on England in a rough embrace. France bit his tongue to restrain from whimpering as he whispered, " Why don't you love me a fraction of what I love you?" England's green eyes grew wide at this, and he spoke into the gag cloth in an intelligible mumbling, but France wouldn't hear it. " Stop talking. Before you make me really angry." He snapped, and England, almost docilely, grew quiet as he watch France with wide, anticipation filled eyes.

France realized he must look like a fool, reacting the way he was. He took a deep breath through his nose, filling his lungs with Arthur's scent, the scent he missed everyday when alone at sea. He moved his fingertips to England's soft neck, touching the silken skin gently, kissing beneath his jaw. England gave an unexpected sigh, shivering as he did so, and France felt his need for England heighten. He kissed his lips again, but so differently than before. He kissed him tenderly, trying to show England how deeply he loved him with every soft nudge of lip and smooth lick of tongue.

Then he remembered. " I nearly forgot, Arthur." France smacked himself on the forehead, grinning evilly down at England's flushed form. " I'm not to be sweet to you until you scream surrender." England's eyes narrowed and he mumbled something that sounded like 'You're better at that than me!', which France ignored.

" One moment, _s'il vous plaît._" France muttered, his long fingers slipping around England's hips. He flipped England onto his stomach with ease, and England's face grew tomato red as his rear was exposed. The anticipation in his gut only grew with every passing second that France did nothing but admire the view.

France took his time. His every movement, every stroke was unbearably slow. Every touch and twist and tease was hot and tantalizing. England couldn't believed the sensations that coursed through him. He couldn't think straight. His face rested on his bicep, but he couldn't feel anything but France's lips as they steamily murmured his name, his tongue that left warm, tickling trails on the sensitive parts of his body, those long, elegant fingers as they fondled him, held him, bruised him. Each hot touch sent him higher into ecstasy. He couldn't see or feel or hear anything that wasn't France. Such an overwhelmingly burning ache penetrated his very being, and, England thought with a blush, France wasn't even inside him yet.

France pulled England hips upward, leading his rear into the air, and England did nothing to protest. He was beyond caring for appearances. England yelped when he felt France lick the tip. His tongue danced in well practiced strokes, and his blonde locks bobbed in time with his head, sucking and licking and extracting sounds from England England didn't know he could make.

France watched his lover's reactions with a mood of barely withheld, but withheld nonetheless, desire. He was determined to keep control until England couldn't. Thor himself could knock on his door and demand he take port, and France wouldn't so much as blink. He didn't care how long this took. He couldn't stand another round of months at sea without this man by his side. If he gave into his desire now, his need to plunge into England and pound into him until he cried out his name, then the next time he'd get this chance... _mon dieu_... probably wouldn't be for another year.

At that thought, France ferociously increased his tempo, bobbing his head like a madman. " France..!" England moaned into the pillow. He couldn't take much more. He needed France. He needed him now. His whole body, every nerve ached desperately for France's touch. " P-Please..!" He tried to speak around the cloth gag.

France wanted to kiss him. Those desperate lust filled eyes, teary with need wasn't something he saw everyday. He wanted to love him. He wanted to show England exactly how much he meant to him. He wanted to slowly fill him, to rock him gently, to kiss him and hold him and not let go. He almost tore the cloth gag out of his mouth before he regained his composure. So instead, he raised his fingers and shoved them past the gag into England's mouth. He met the surprised green eyes and gave a single command. " Suck."

England's pride almost flared at that. Almost. But he was past the point of no return, so he obliged, wetting France's fingers as much as he could before France took them out. He licked the fingers himself before placing them and England's entrance. He hesitated, just for a moment, and watched his lover writhe and tremble with need. Need for him, for France, before he slowly inserted a finger.

England's head snapped up and he gasped as he was probed over and over again by those hot fingers. France slowly adding a second, and England felt his frame quiver. He was sick of these games. He wanted to be untied, immediately. The cloth gag was already soaked with his saliva, and his wrists had been rubbed raw from his struggling. But more so than for his discomfort, he wanted the restraints gone so he could pull France to him. So he could run his fingers through that luscious blonde hair and kiss those perfect lips. He wanted to urge France to be inside him, and he wanted to hold onto his shoulders as he took him. He wanted to love France, and godammit he couldn't tied up like this!

But telling France to take the gag off... he might as well tell him he surrendered. Ugh, he refused!

" France..! Fuck!" England moaned loudly, his ragged breathing loud even to himself. " Just.. put it in!" He was close. so close, but without France... it was impossible! He needed France! Now! How could he be so calm about this? " How are you.. not excited!?" England practically shouted. Then, so quickly England didn't know what was happening, France flipped him onto his back and tore off the soaked gag, tossing it to the ground. England eye's fluttered close as France placed his member, full and ready, at England entrance and slowly lowered his body on top of England's, wrapping his arms around England's head, stopping when his lips hovered a hair's breadth from his own. Then he did nothing. England opened his eyes and saw those beautiful blue ones staring into his own.

England's entire body shook. He could feel France's hot tip, poised right there, waiting. He wanted it so badly. " France.." He moaned, an unspoken question to why he stopped. He wanted it so badly, so why did he stop?

France's mouth pressed together in a hard, unforgiving line before he opened those pretty lips to speak in a commanding whisper.

" Surrender."

Time seemed to stop then, the entire earth halted on its slow rotation for the space of an entire breath. A whole moment of absolute stillness.

England couldn't believe what he'd just heard. He couldn't believe that now, now of all times, France would do this! " You sleazy little arsehole!" England recoiled from the cruelty, his hands still bound above his head. " _Now_? _Now_! France, please!" He couldn't believe how much he needed France, he couldn't believe he was begging him. This wasn't England. He was a mighty nation, he did not beg! Yet here he was, so plainly begging, pleading for France. France just shook his head, his blue eyes hard. " Surrender."

" France! Stop this nonsense! Now is not the time!" England couldn't think of a worse time, actually. He tried to adjust his body, rubbing his entrance against France's hard tip, to tempt him to enter, but France just pulled away each time. " But it is the time, _mon amour_." France whispered, brushing his hot lips over England's sensually. " I will drive you further into madness should you refuse, _mon cher_. Great, delicious agony awaits you there, and I.." He slowly licked England's bottom lip, " won't..." and lay air light kisses along his jaw, in a slow, cruel game of cat and mouse, always teasing, never giving England what he wanted, " grant you release." As if to emphasize his promise, France pressed his hips forwards, almost with enough pressure to press himself into England. England moaned, his erection throbbed so painfully he couldn't bear it.

But oh god, was this how he'd end? There was no other way! The bastard had put him in the one position where he had no choice but to submit!

" Shit!" England grit his teeth, his ragged breathing turning into dog-like pants with need. The hot coils of aching flesh had risen to the point of pain, of agony. He couldn't think of any other way out! Except maybe...

" UGHHAHHH!" England screamed in defeat. " Fine! I'll do as you wish!"

France couldn't believe his ears. His blue eyes grew wide and he gasped as England's words hit him in a strong, resounding wave. The game was over. England was his. Finally, sweet finally, his little Englishman was his! He threw his hips forward and England cried out when France entered him. He finally kissed England, softly, lovingly, hungrily still. " Arthur.. _mon_ _Arthur_!" France smashed his lips against England's and pulled him as close as he could as he rocked his hips in long, strong motions. England hungrily returned his kisses, lost in the dizzying pleasure. France filled him, rocked him, plunged into him, every thrust so intense and always, always hitting the spot. Their loud gasps and moans and groans filled the room, a sweet symphony of love making. England arched his back as much as he could gasping and panting, letting his tight heat envelope France, bringing them both higher and higher. The heat in the room, wrought by their steamy passion, fogged the windows and raised the indoor temperature. Sweat ran off their bodies, making them slippery and lubricating their bodies as their slid and ground against each other. Each kiss was salty with sweat, and, England thought dimly, he couldn't care whose it was.

" France!" England gasped, his head thrown back. " The binds! Remove them, quickly!" England couldn't stand this a second longer. He need to pull France's body against his, to grab him and hold him! France did as he asked, and not breaking pace, untied England's hands. Freed, England grabbed tightly onto France's shoulders, holding him closely and tightly. His fingertips tingled; he hadn't touched France in months, hadn't had a chance to before he was bound. His hands now were insatiable, touching every parts of France he could. Gripping his taunt shoulders, sliding down his slick back to push on his firm buttocks, driving him further inside, then back up to his head, his fingertips tangling in his think golden locks, bringing his mouth down hard against his own. He tasted him, bit his lips and kissed him, sometimes rough, sometimes soft. He just needed France's touch, to hold him, and England was in ecstasy.

And France's heart soared with every kiss, every returned thrust, every matched need to touch. For once, England craved him as much he craved England. " Arthur.." France brought his lips against England's neck, and sucked the soft skin into his mouth, extracted a gasp of pleasure from England. When he pulled away, a dark purple bruise was shining with saliva, and France kissed the hickey softly.

" F-France! I'm.. almost.." England panted heavily, unable to finish his sentence. France knew though, as he always seemed to. He increased his tempo, angling himself in a way he hit England's sweet spot each time, and England came undone, exclaiming as he released onto their chests. Seeing England's face, oh so erotic in its expression of blissful release, sent France over the edge, and he wrapped his arms around England as he kissed him, spilling himself inside with some few, final thrusts.

France collapsed on top of England, their sweat soaked bodies reeking of passion. England loved this man, loved feeling his weight pressing down on him as they laid there, enjoying the afterglow as their heavy panting and racing heartbeats calmed down into quiet peace. Slowly, France pulled out, and lay down beside England, draping both an arm and a leg over his body.

France turned his head and kissed England's cheek softly, his still hot breath making England shiver with chill. England looked over and his green eyes widened when he saw France's expression. His radiating smile and joyous eyes emanated loved, and England blushed.

" Arthur.." France kissed him on the cheek softly, " My Arthur.." and England's blush grew deeper and deeper as France continued to kiss him and breathe his name over and over again against his cheek. His gentle " Arthur.. Arthur.."s grew softer and softer until they stopped altogether. France was asleep.

England breathed deeply, tired. He could so easily let go and fall asleep in this man's arms. He wouldn't mind dozing off breathing in his smell and feeling the warmth of his body next to his. Except he couldn't. He couldn't stay here. He had to leave. He'd lied.

He couldn't lose, he just couldn't! England slowly slinked out of France's embrace, careful not to wake him. His sleeping face was so peaceful, so innocent, England couldn't bear to see it. He'd betrayed this man. He didn't deserve his love, and he was going to make sure they never had to be together again. He couldn't be with this man.

He couldn't.

He couldn't.


	3. The Sport, Won

France awoke from his blissful rest to find his arms empty. He propped himself up on one elbow and rubbed the sleepiness from his eyes before he looked to find his quarters empty too. Something wasn't right. France through the blanket off himself and sprang out of bed, naked in the warm late day sun. England was nowhere to be found. His clothes were gone. France quickly pulled on trousers and ran onto the deck. His ship was still safely nestled in harbor, the red and golds of the setting sun throwing the water into an ever moving cascade of color. France ran to the stern, his heart beating in a panicked rhythm of loud booms. He went below deck and searched his crew's quarters, the kitchen, the storage barracks even in a desperate frenzy that had his breath coming in pants. The cold hard reality hit him like a solid wave. England wasn't on his ship. The whole day he'd wasted sleeping, not having the slightest idea that England wouldn't be there when he woke. He wouldn't have slept if he'd known.

France tried to calm his frantic breathing. England wasn't far. He couldn't be. He'd lost,-

No. England's exact words. What were they.

_Fine, I'll do as you wish._

Those were not ' _I lose_.'

" _Putain!_" France fell to his knees, his whole body, down to the last nerve, trembling in fury. When he tasted blood he had to remind himself not to grind his teeth. He had no idea how long he kneeled in the dark of the storage barracks. He was overcome with disbelief. He couldn't believe it. He couldn't grasp it. His entire being rejected the reality that was presented before him. " _Merde!_" If England wasn't on his ship, than England wasn't anywhere else that he knew of. He wouldn't have gone to shore without waking France first. He wouldn't have gone anywhere, not without a ship!

France lifted his head and wiped the tear streaks off his face as he realized. England didn't have his ship. That meant he was traveling by foot. France doubted that proud Captain Arthur Kirkland would have bartered passage on a foreign ship. No, he'd be traveling by foot.

France ran back up the dank stairs and into his quarters. He disregarded his bright, flashy captain's clothes and dressed in commoner's rags. He tied his hair back with a blue ribbon and donned a black cloak. His boots were worn and he wore and leather belt ridden with daggers and hidden weapons. He tied his sword's sheath to his waist and left. Under the cover of darkness, he knew he could find England. Foot games were his specialty. And this was his country. He knew every inch of this land. England did not. And besides, France had a good guess as to what England would do. He'd find him. And this time, he wasn't giving him the chance to escape.

...

England walked through the dark of the forest on a well worn travelers' path. The weather had steadily grown dismal and stormy as he had felt since the morning, and a few moments ago it had started raining buckets. He'd started walking hours ago, and it was well into the night now. He'd asked a young woman in a green skirt who he'd passed what the next town over was, and if there was an inn on this road. She had replied that the inn was at a crossroads, about about thirty kilometers and two left turns down. He'd thanked her and been on his way, traveling until now.

In the distance he could see the glow of the lighted lanterns of the inn. He hurried towards it, his green cloak soaked and his body wet and cold. In all honesty, he was physically and emotionally exhausted and yearned for nothing more than a glass of brandy and a good night's rest. He needed time to lick his wounds, and figure out how to start his life over. Perhaps his reign of the sea was coming to an end. He didn't care.

From what he could make out through the blur of the rain, the inn looked cozy, if somewhat worn and used. He entered, hearing the little bell above the door ring and announce his arrival to the innkeeper, who stood behind a bar where a few tired souls sat drinking their sorrows away. England put his hood down, and went to join them. The innkeeper watched him sit down, and set a heavy glass in front of him automatically.

" What's yer poision?"

" Anything, Everything. I haven't a care." England muttered.

" One of those times, eh?" The innkeeper chuckled and poured the brew. England felt the smell it fill his nose, and welcomed it like a familiar friend. He wrapped his pale hand around the glass and drank the frothy contents.

" I'll be needing lodging for the night as well." England told the innkeeper.

" Aye." The man reached beneath the table and pulled up and key. " The third room on the second floor." England paid the man and took the key, appraising the man.

" Say chap. You look rather familiar. Tell me, what's your trade?"

The man grinned, and England saw a flash of gold. " A good eye on ye, lad. Today, I am nothing more than a humble innkeep. But in my youth.." The man leaned forwards and rolled up his sleeve to reveal his forearm, and the tell tale brand of a capital P. He spoke in a whisper. " I was quite the troublesome lad." He winked.

England grinned. A former pirate. Kinsman.

" I must say, your trade, is, well, a bit all too familiar." England smirked over the rim of his glass as he swallowed the last of the drink. The man grinned in kind.

" Is it now.? It's good to know it carries on, never changing." The man had a faraway look in his eye that disappeared quickly. " By what tides do you sail, my fine fellow?"

" I sail all year. But recently, a storm bucked me from my ship. I'm heading up to port, to listen for rumorings of where she is."

The man gave him a sympathetic look and pressed his lips together. " Tis a sad day when a man's lover throws him away." He sighed.

England felt his heart clench sharply at the man's unintentional double meaning. He swallowed the lump in his throat. " Yes, well.. I must retire now, I'm afraid."

The man nodded. " Aye, you'll want the sleep if you're heading _up _to port. It's at least another two days' journey, and this is the last stop with a bed and fire!" He chuckled.

England nodded and excused himself. He went to his room, feeling like his feet and heart were made of iron. He shuffled into his room and closed the door. A young boy, probably working for the innkeeper, was starting a fire in the fireplace, and the lamps were already lit. He scurried out when England entered.

He shuffled out of his wet clothes and shoes and cloak and laid them by the fireplace to dry before extinguishing the lamps and going naked into bed. He wet hair laid against the pillow's coolness and he shivered. Finally giving in to the inevitable, he cried.

The cackle of the fire was quiet, and England held onto the sound for comfort. If he could hear the fire, no one else could hear his sobs. They wracked his shoulders, and caused his breath to come in shaky, erratic gasps. His nose ran with snot and he couldn't find a damn to wipe it away with. Tear soaked his pillow and yet they didn't cease to flow.

With time, he knew, the agony would fade. He knew the pain he felt now would go. Slowly, albeit, but it would eventually go. Until that day, when he could lay his head on his pillow and not think of him, when he could wake in the early dawn light and not feel the painful emptiness of his bed, when the day came he could pull his cheeks into a grin and not feel as if it was the deepest of betrayals, until that day he would love France. But when that day came, he would be free.

The price he would pay for that day was this. A soggy pillow and empty soul.

But, he thought, flipping the pillow over as the fire glowed and cast his dancing silhouette on the wall, it was a cheap price, wasn't it? The love he and France had was not a mere trinket, or a worn out old book. It was a grand monument, a vast library. He deserved a much more reasonable price for breaking such an exquisite, irreplaceable thing.

Hell, he thought. I deserve hell.

A lifetime of misery was really too cheap.

...

There. There he was. The sleeping man, oh so peacefully resting in the glow of the dying fire.

It was as if he'd _wanted_ to be left alone what with the secrecy he'd gone about with his travels. He'd put on a new disguise, or so France had figured out, each time he'd asked directions or questions, so he became very hard to track. A port connects a million different towns, or webworks of travelling roads to a million different towns! It was a very easy place to get oneself lost in.

It's almost as if he'd tried his hardest to ensure France didn't find him.

_Which would make sense, _mon Angelterre, he thought_, if it wasn't for ze fact zat you tricked me. I won't be giving you a second chance._

France took off his soaking cloak and tossed it to the fire, not bothering to be quiet. He didn't care. He was beyond livid.

A 25 mile hike through the woods in the rain at night was not the best of trips to put a jilted Frenchman in a good mood.

He walked to the bed, and kicked the sleeping figure clean onto the hard, cold floor.

England sprang awake, instantly furious. He got to his feet unsteadily, wrapping the blanket around his naked waist and shouting, " Who in the ever loving fuck is-" He stopped when he saw France stand on the other side of the bed. His body glowed in the firelight, and it seemed like hellfire illuminated his silouette. He glanced away, his throat closing.

" I'll give you one chance." France's voice was a low rumble, barely containing his rage. " Repeat after me: I lose."

The air was tense, the tension so thick you could cut it.

England remained silent.

France sprang.

He jumped over the bed and kicked England in the chest with one powerful blow that sent him to the ground. He grimaced from the pain but quickly rolled out of the way of France's two big boots landing where just a second ago he had been. He sprang up and tackled France's middle, and they crashed to the floor.

" Stop it!" England punched him once, just to rattle him enough to get some sense into him, but it only further enraged France. France kneed him in the back and hit his face with a cold, bony fist. England fell to the side with his head spinning, and France was on top of him before he could move, punching his face with ferocious speed.

France let out everything he had bottled up on the way here. All the heartbreak, all the confusion, all the anger at the betrayal. Each punch to the traitor's face eased his mind just a little, so without mercy, he wailed on the Englishman until he was out of breath, not pausing, not ceasing, not allowing any spot where England might make a counter attack. He beat him ruthlessly, and England, even if he'd been physically able to, did nothing.

He accepted each blow. He deserved them. Even when he saw stars, and felt the blood that flowed from his mouth and nose pool beneath his head, even when he felt like he couldn't breath, he did nothing.

And France stopped. After who knows how long, he stopped. They both were out of breath. France looked down at the man below him. The left side of his face was swollen and purple, almost unrecognizable with an eye swollen shut. He was bleeding heavily. England didn't care about the pain, he was more concerned with breathing. His breath came in ragged cries. No, wait. That wasn't his breath. He turned his head, and through his one good eye he saw France staring down at him, tearing flowing down his livid face. England's heart stopped.

He'd done this. He knew he would. He couldn't bear it. But he couldn't just-

" Why?" England looked at France, who stared down at him, wondering why his vision was blurry.

England found his voice. " Why what?"

France pulled one arm back and slapped him as hard as he could. England spat blood.

" Why, Arthur!?" France slapped him again, on the other side. " WHY!" He couldn't see anymore, and he could barely breathe. He heard himself sobbing but could hardly comprehend it was himself who let out those sounds. He couldn't make out much anything except his fury.

England took a deep breath, trying to brace himself, preparing to explain himself.

" I.. just.. I can't.. Francis." He looked at the man he loved, the man he was breaking above him. " I'm England. I can't lose our game." He choked out. " If I lose than it means my whole country, all my people, my whole culture, will be gone." He looked up at the man, trying to get him to understand, even though if he did it would still be pointless. " I can't lose." He whispered.

France slapped him again.

" As _if_ zat is your reasoning! I know you, _mon cher_, and I know you are lying! Your country may be as important as you say, but do not zink for one second zat I am fooled by you! You knew what would happen when we started zis! You knew what one day you may have to give up! I did too! We both did! Still, we went through with it, and do you know why, you stupid, pig-headed fool!?"

He waited until England shook his head yes.

" It was because we love each other."

And in that moment when those beautiful words escaped his lips, all of the fury and despair was gone, leaving in its memory only the hurt and ache they both felt.

France kissed him, and England kissed him back.

" All zese years, my love, and you haven't changed at all. You're still a proud, stubborn fool." He whispered into his lips.

England felt his tears land on his face. He wrapped his arms around his head, all reason lost in the magic of the moment when France whispered,

" You win, _mon cher_. I lose"

England froze. He sat up, and France watched him.

" What did you say?"

France smiled a bitter, teary eyed smile.

" I said it first, _mon cher_. I lose."

England just stared, confused, and France smiled, getting to his feet and dusted off his knees.

" Well, I suppose ze real problem is simply zat you are far too proud. So if I say it first, zen you, zen zere is really no problem. Because if I lose, and you lose, _mon amour_, it will simply mean zat you and I lose to each other, not our whole countries. Our people will sacrifice nothing. The French will still be French, and the English will still be English. Nothing will be lost, just you and me, together forever."

France pulled England to his feet, and kissed him softly.

" All zat is left, my life, my love, my Arthur, is for you to say it."

England's mind was racing. Could it really be that simple? He couldn't see if France was tricking him, because France had already said it! If he didn't say it in turn, it would mean he would be victorious. France was putting the fate of all of his people in England's hands. He loved and trusted him to that extent.

The only question was: would he say it back?

...

France held his breath, everything on the table. He had no aces, no safety net, no lifeboat. This was it. He had showed England, stubborn, proud, oh so very insecure England the true extent of his love. The true thing he was asking right now, as he held his breath and waited in tense silence for his reply, was if England loved him the same way he loved England.

That was it.

He had placed his entire country on a gamble of love.

It was almost poetic.

England licked his lips, and buried his head in France's shoulder. France heard the tiniest of whispers, quiet, embarrassed, but oh so very there,

" I lose."

France kissed him with everything he had, his heart, his spirit, his soul, he poured it all into that one kiss. He pulled England to the bed, pulling off his own clothes and kissed him, and England kissed him back just as passionately. Everything lick and flaming touch was met with a stronger one. They couldn't get enough. They were insatiable. It was impossible, and beautiful, and miraculous.

They made love until dawn, and then lay in each other's sweaty arms as the sun slowly rose, whispering sweet nothings to each other and smiling.

" I love you."

" And I, you. Even if you tire me."

" You near exhaust _me_." England replied.

" You're impossible." France retorted with a smirk.

" I really don't think there will ever, in history, be a game quite as tiring as that one was. Let's pray that no one will have to go through something like what we put ourselves through."

" No other lovers with be stupid enough to play such a game."

" Such a tiring sport."

" One hell of a sport. _Mon dieu_."

" _The_ Sport, I should say. No other sport could compare."


End file.
